Yet another transition is approaching. Notice the first two syllables of that noun. More buses, cars, trains and airports. I muse on past experiences, and I smile now, even if I wasn’t smiling then. I invite you to smile along as I recall:
Going through security check at the Frankfurt Airport, the officer pulled Paul aside to empty the contents of his carry-on pack. “Too much electronics”, he stated as he pulled out cords, adapters and various devices. His parting shot was an order, “Tuck in your shirt.”
It was our flight to Kenya from Lisbon in ’88. A misunderstanding resulted in our family of 6 running through the terminal to board the plane that sat waiting just for us, the late ones. The other passengers sat quietly, buckled in and ready to taxi, and watched the harried parents herd their bouncing little ones down the aisle and into their proper seats. The parents were trying not to be noticed but gave up that notion when the 5-year old claimed a window seat, took a quick look at the “window sill” and hollered, “Mommy, my window won’t open!”
Then there was the morphing bag – a nifty, nylon garment bag that folded in half with a shoulder strap at the fold, to be carried like any other thin bag of 36”x36”x6”. Trouble is, in addition to the 3 or four shirts it was designed to carry, hubby tucked all the other items one might (and even what one might not) transport in a normal “carry-on” piece of luggage. These items naturally sank to the ends of the bag when it was folded and mounted up there in a lumpy pile. The weight stretched the sides taut, giving it an “A” shape, making the bag appear much bigger and fuller than it was. As it hung from his shoulder, it looked like a bag that should have been checked. The officials at the gate always thought so, too. Without fail he would be stopped and questioned. Without fail, my man would quickly demonstrate the bag’s wonderful morphing qualities while we pretended we didn’t know him. (Where was our sense of humor, I ask you?) “See, it just scrunches and changes to accommodate itself to whatever space is available in the overhead bin!” What a marvel. We traveled for years with this morphing marvel, the children and I gradually lagging further and further behind the daddy in airport lines to avoid yet another embarrassment. The kids were grown and gone when Daddy finally retired his carry-on garment bag for something more suitable: a fleecy, florescent orange back pack. I guess that’s so Grandma here doesn’t lose sight of him in a crowded transit lounge.